


War Stories

by walking_contradiction42



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Canon-Typical Violence, Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley is a Sweetheart (Good Omens), Crowley is a kanelbullar, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Kinda, Lack of Communication, M/M, Post-Scene: St James's Park 1862 (Good Omens), War, Whump, because that should be a tag, but he doesn't know that yet, not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:14:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28956285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walking_contradiction42/pseuds/walking_contradiction42
Summary: Aziraphale is trying his best, desperate to safe as many people as he can, when the street next to him is hit by a bomb.Fortunately Crowley is just a few streets away, trying to safe some kids in a real evil, demonic fashion.Or maybe unfortunately, because the two haven’t spoken in years…
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	War Stories

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been sitting on my pile for quite some time now.  
> It has some descriptions of violence and injury, but mostly towards buildings, really. Nothing too graphic.  
> It is set between the holy water and London Blitz scene.

13th of June 1917, London

Aziraphale felt, like he was walking over glass splinters. Not literally, although that might have also been the case, hard to tell with the smear of ash and chunks of stones littering the ground. No, it was an unease deep down in his mind. Somehow his ethereal essence felt extra sensitive, every impression around him prickling unpleasantly. Like eyes that had become too used to the dark and were now blinded by a bright light. Or skin that was still irritated from a severe sunburn. Not that he had experience anything like this before.

It was 1917. War, one of the four horsemen, held Europe in her firm grip. By this point ever person involved had long since forgotten, why they were fighting in the first place. It was more some kind of childish stubbornness, that under other circumstances Aziraphale would have smiled upon rather fondly, hadn’t it been used as an excuse to kill several thousand people.

It was also the point of the war, where humans discovered the vastness of the cruelty God had endowed them with. Where they tested the limits of how many people they could kill with a single explosion, how many families they could rip apart. Although it was only a ludicrous foretaste of what was to come in later years, Aziraphale still shivered every time, he heard the booming sound of the bombs, and saw the deathly glimmer of the explosions.

It was also the time of naïve and lethal fascination. When in later years, people would run across the streets in pure panic and fear, to search what little shelter they could find from the attacks, the realisation of their deathly nature hadn’t yet settled in with the ordinary people of London in those early days. So every time a plane flew over the city, disposing of its dangerous cargo, people would run out into the open streets, staring up into the clouds with joy and spell about the new technological marvels.

Aziraphale had very mixed feelings about curiosity in general. On the one hand it was the thing that had gotten them expelled from the Garden of Eden in the first place. On the other hand he couldn’t help but find it one of their most endearing character traits, pushing their understanding of God’s creations to deeper levels with the passing of the centuries.

But on this day he really wished he had been a lot more conscientious with his apple duties. Because all around him there were screams of confusion and pain and there was nothing he could do about it.

The air was thick with ash and dust and he could barely see more than a few feet. The smoke felt unpleasant in his lungs, making it rather difficult to breathe. All that he saw of the humans were vague shapes, stumbling around in the ruins of what had once had been their home. There were cries, screams more animalistic than human, and he could hear a child weeing for their parents.

All of it pressed down on him, like a dark, heavy blanket. The sorrow, the pain, the desperation. It tugged at his essence, trying to gain his attention, screaming at him to end their misery. But he couldn’t help all of them. It was too much. He wasn’t strong enough. So he just stumbled through the chaos like everyone else and the pain made his heart well with unshed tears.

He picked up a crying child that had tumbled to his knees in front of him. Quickly a very distressed looking mother emerged from the veils of smoke. Aziraphale handed her the child, quickly guiding her towards one of the houses.

“Please, get inside. It’s not safe out here,” he told her.

Then he made his way further down the road. A maze of stones and small fires made his progress much slower than he liked it to be.

He knew that only a few streets away a primary school had been hit. He could sense it, the fear of so many innocent minds. Maybe he could get over there and help. Children were always a good starting point, as they could barely take care of themselves. Not that any other human could.

Crowley would go looking for the children. Aziraphale felt a familiar pang in his chest, as the thought about his friend, no former friend. He didn’t suppose Crowley ever wanted to talk to him again, after the stunt he had pulled the last time.

If possible Aziraphale’s chest got even tighter.

Crowley had always had a soft spot for children, even if Aziraphale didn’t really understand why. Back in the great flood he had cursed the Almighty for ending the lives of so many of them. Aziraphale had pretended to look the other way as he smuggled a few of them onto the arch.

The memory brought a melancholic smile to Aziraphale’s lips.

Maybe he would go to the school to help. It was better than restlessly wandering around anyway.

Then he spotted a whole crowd of people, standing just outside the doors of what seemed to be a factory. Angry shouting wavered over towards him. His steps quickened.

“Please go back inside,” He urged them, pointing towards the open doors.

“’m not going back in there, mate,” a worker told him with a thick accent, Aziraphale couldn’t exactly place. “We’ll be crushed by the stones.”

The crowed murmured in agreement.

A lump of desperation settled in Aziraphale’s gut. He heard new planes approaching very fast from above. Their wings cut through the air, engines rattling with small explosions. There was no time. He couldn’t just leave them to their fate.

“Please, go inside. You’re much safer there, than you are here.”

He carefully guided one of the women by her shoulders. She was pregnant, her steps carefully as she gripped her swollen stomach. A sudden dread washed over him, as he thought of the world that would await her child once it was born.

Some of the others still protested, but apparently his tone had been pleading enough for most of them to creep back towards the entrance. Still, way to slow.

There was another booming sound, very close to them and Aziraphale flinched. The lump in his stomach was now burning hot, twisting uncomfortably, while he watched the only tardy dissolving crowd. He helped some of the older people back over the threshold, to keep his hands from fiddling with his waistcoat.

Only a few men and woman now remained outside. The one that had objected him early was calmly smoking a pipe.

“Please, go back inside,” Aziraphale pleaded again.

The guy laughed. “Those bombs won’t fall ‘ere. And out ‘ere on the street we won’t be trapped if the building collapses.”

The other people nodded consensually.

“Yeah, go away creep,” A woman shouted.

Aziraphale felt like a traversed spring. His constant worrying had pushed him to his limits. And now those stupid animals wouldn’t even accept his help. He was trying to save their life’s, for heaven’s sake. And all they offered him in return was distrust and resentment.

Aziraphale couldn’t even remember covering the distance between himself and the man, but next thing he knew, he was forcefully shoving him against the hard brick wall.

“Get. Inside.” He growled with a voice deep like the deepest pit of the sea.

The man’s feet were dangling several feet above the ground, something a normal human being in Aziraphale’s shape, probably wouldn’t have managed. Maybe something of his divine strength must have shown. It was quite intimidating. Also his eyes were shining with heavenly rage, so all the man could manage was a scared nod.

Aziraphale let go and he scrambled away as fast as possible, falling over his own feet multiple times.

He turned towards the rest of the group that looked at him with big, fearful eyes.

“Anyone need another invitation?”

They ran inside with equal speed.

It wasn’t like Aziraphale to snap like that. He was very keen on solving every situation without violence, if possible. And if it wasn’t possible, well, then he would normally just avoid the situation. But he had been on his last leg the entire day, since these awful bombs had first fallen, and he really didn’t have the patience to deal with some foolish mortals now.

He sighed and began to close the doors behind the people that were now safely thrust inside the factory hall.

Then the attack started.

It was close. So close Aziraphale could feel the ground shaking under his feet. Tables, chairs, people all tumbled across the room. Confused and panicked screaming echoed around him, as they tried to flee towards the door in a basic instinct.

“No please, stay inside,” Aziraphale begged, as some of the people tried to push past him.

He leaned against the doors with all the force he could manage, closing them before anyone could slip outside. They pounded against the wood, begged him to let them back outside. Bodies were piling up inside, throwing themselves against the wood and trying to compete with his strength, holding the door in place.

Another bomb hit and the blind panic increased. Screams, tears, collapsing buildings only a few streets away.

He could feel their pain. It was pure agony.

His muscles started aching. Yes, he was strong, but he was currently battling the strength of at least a hundred panicked people, and even a warrior of God could only keep this up for so long.

He gritted his teeth, a desperate sob clawing its way up his throat. He had to keep going, had to keep them inside.

Then a bomb on the street next to him. Aziraphale could feel it falling. Could feel the air bending around its sleek body. Everything was going in slow motion.

Then it exploded, ripping through the tarmac, sending shards of burning hot ground into a deathly tornado of soil. Fire erupted around him, coating him into a blanket of pure pain and torment. Houses gave in to the immense pressure, sacking away with a sinister crunch.

Aziraphale tried his best to shield it. He really did. But there was only so much he could do. He tried to protect the building with all those frightened people inside. He tried to keep the houses around from collapsing onto their inhabitants. But the bomb was too close. It was too powerful.

The last thing he noticed was that it didn’t hurt one bit. He didn’t feel anything. Just a weird calm inside him. Then he was embraced by the cold darkness.

+++++++++++++++++

Crowley hated children. He hated their stupid whining, he hated how awfully filthy and nerve wrecking they were. Maybe it was also the fact that most of them started crying if he dared come too close to them.

Still he had some weird kind of admiration for them. They were the perfect troublemakers, original bastards, harmless playing monsters. They could get away with anything. And there was so much innocence to their mischief, no cruelty, like most of the grownup specimens usually showed. He wouldn’t have admitted it, but actually they were pretty similar. Just spreading a bit of trouble here and there, having fun with it, not seeking to really harm anyone.

Maybe that was why he was so protective of them in the first place. Back when God had sent her ominous flood, drowning all the people, even the children. He couldn’t bare the idea of destroying such innocent lives. How could they be punished for something they barely understood? And if he rescued some of them from the dangerous waters, smuggled them on the arch while a particular angel was looking the other way, well, that was just thwarting God’s plan wasn’t it?

Probably it was something similar this time, as he rescued at least a hundred children from a collapsing primary school. Who knew? Maybe God had wanted these kids to die. Maybe they would all become vicious criminals. He would come with up something later.

“Hey, come back here,” Crowley screamed as one of the particularly small children, ran away from the group.

Crowley handed the last of the children to the exhausted looking teacher and hurried after the kid.

Stupid children. Always had to run directly towards the danger. He shouldn’t even care. The parents should thank him for getting rid of that deceitful bundle of glee. He cursed as he continued after the child.

It was hard to see anything through the thick veil of smoke and dust. But if there was one plus side to these bombings, it was the rush of despair and agony it send pulsing through his veins, sharpening his senses and letting his skin itch with power.

“Stupid little brat,” he cursed again and nearly would have fallen over the child.

It was standing there motionless, looking at him with big, sad eyes, his bottom lip trembling slightly. It seemed like it was staring at something, but he couldn’t figure out, what it was. Certainly it didn’t have a reason to run away or stop dead in his tracks. It was strange behaviour, even for a kid.

Crowley sighed and bent down. “There you are,” he said and hoisted the child back into his arms.

A group of children and a very distraught looking teacher rounded the corner and Crowley handed the child back over with a small smile. The teacher screamed at them for running away so foolishly and left without any thanks to Crowley.

Crowley didn’t mind. Probably it was better this way.

Something was still making him uneasy though. The way the child had just stood there, how it had run away only to stop in the middle of an empty street. Something was itching in the back of his mind. He was missing something.

Crowley looked around. He was standing in front of what he supposed was a factory. A few feet away the street was cut open by a deep crater. Apparently a bomb had hit there. Little fires were still gleaming all around and stones were scattered across the whole street. But apart from that everything seemed fine. It was…

Crowley’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt. That was what had bothered him so much in the first place. For a street that had just been hit by a bomb, everything looked suspiciously fine. No walls were damaged, no buildings collapsed, no half shredded extremities lying around. It was almost like…

A sudden dreadful suspicion settled in his bones. Carefully he took a few more steps forward, towards the doors of the factory. His heart hammered against his ribs. Then his eyes fell on something very human shaped with unmistakable white, curly hair

Oh, he really wished he had been wrong.

Somehow the idea of leaving Aziraphale there in the mud, between all the piles of stones and trash, never even occurred to him. It should have. It should have been the first thing he thought of. The way Aziraphale had snapped at him, reducing their relationship to the disgusting idea of mere fraternizing. He should have felt the same rush of pain and anger, should have scolded at the motionless body and turned his back on him, like Aziraphale had so many years ago.

But he didn’t. The idea never even crossed his mind as he hurried towards his side, stumbling over pieces on the ground as his legs threatened to give in under him.

He finally sank to his knees next to Aziraphale’s figure, splinters digging into the sensitive skin over his bones. He didn’t notice it. His gaze was pinned to Aziraphale’s pale face, his eyes screwed shut in a painful expression.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley shook him by the shoulders, trying very hard to calm his racing heart.

The angel didn’t react.

“Aziraphale!” He tried again, shaking him even more violently.

Panic started to jolt through him, dangerous electricity in his veins, making him shiver and his hands tremble without his permission.

Aziraphale wasn’t hurt. He could tell that much. There was no gruesome piece of stone sticking through his chest, nor was half of his face burned off. He was just incredibly pale and obviously very unconscious.

“Aziraphale, you fucking idiot, you can’t just go and sleep on an open street.”

His voice was betraying him, wavering suspiciously, as he tried to sound very cross at the angel’s effrontery to put him in such a situation.

He was angry. Angry at Aziraphale for just letting himself get hit by a bomb, angry at that bastard pilot for dropping the bomb next to him. Angry at himself, because he wasn’t able to help.

A quick miracle ensured that the pilot would never receive any wacky reward for his actions.

Something in Aziraphale reacted to his miracle. Crowley held his breath, although he actually didn’t really need to breathe.

He reached out with his demonic senses, searching for every hint of Aziraphale’s presence. Crowley let out a sigh of relief, when he found a faint glimmer of the angle’s ethereal energy, still clinging to the mortal body before him. It was very weak, glistering under the contact with Crowley’s being, but it was there nonetheless.

Probably the angel had overdone it with his attempt at saving a whole street from the destruction by a bomb. Stupid, divine, fucking wholesome, stupid idiot. Of course Aziraphale would risk his own life, trying to safe a bunch of random workers, because that was just what Aziraphale did. He was too good for this fucking world.

Crowley noticed he had started cursing a lot. That was just another thing with his stupid, amazing angel. Always driving him crazy with his fucking suicide missions, when Crowley had to hop around the whole world to get him out of a spot of trouble.

Crowley wheezed, as he tried to heave Aziraphale over his shoulder.

“Angel, could you stop being an obstructive sack of potatoes?”

Naturally, Aziraphale didn’t answer, so Crowley made his way over the street with a way too heavy angel on his back, his legs aching under every step. But he was determined. He knew Aziraphale’s current accommodation laid only a few streets away. (Not that he was stalking him or anything. He just liked to know what his adversary was up to.) And he couldn’t just leave him here defenceless, could he?

It took them way longer, than Crowley had anticipated, to get back to Aziraphale’s small flat. All the way Crowley was cursing in colourful words and the angel dangled over his shoulder in the same unresponsive manner. That didn’t stop Crowley from telling him what exactly he thought about Aziraphale sacrificing himself for useless humans though.

Really, he wouldn’t have his angel any other way. But that was not something he would just tell Aziraphale. No, carelessly risking his life like that, he deserved nothing else but furious rants for the next couple of years.

He flopped Aziraphale down on his bed, first kicking down the piles of books that had been parked on it. Aziraphale barely used his bed, so there was no reason for him not to exploit it as storing space, like anything else, when, as usual, the space at his bookshop was getting sparse.

“You know, I should use the book as blankets,” Crowley joked as he tucked Aziraphale in with a blanket he had miracled up, because apparently Aziraphale didn’t even have the fundamental grasp of putting one on his bed.

He sighed as he looked down on his friend.

Somewhere deep down in his gut, a familiar feeling had settled in. He wanted to stay, watch over Aziraphale, and make sure he was okay. He wanted to see that wonderful smile on his lips when he woke back up. He wanted to see the delight in Aziraphale’s eyes when he found Crowley sitting next to him.

But he knew he couldn’t stay. Because no matter how much he had previously supressed the situation, no matter how much he wanted to forget about it, he knew that Aziraphale wouldn’t want him there.

And maybe in a few years, everything would be different. Maybe they could start over, make another try at understanding each other. But it still felt too early, too fresh. They still needed more time. Some time to think, some time to calm down.

He needed more time to lick his wounds. Because honestly, if Aziraphale tried to push him away a second time, he didn’t know if he could survive that.

Crowley carefully pushed one of Aziraphale’s curls out of his face.

“Goodbye, Angel” he whispered and walked out of the room.

+++++++++++++++

When Aziraphale woke, the first thing he noticed was the pain. His body was entirely consumed by a dull throbbing. His legs and arms felt heavy and his head was spinning uncomfortably.

The second thing he noticed was the warmth all around him. Something soft was pressing into his back and his front was covered by something even softer.

He opened his eyes and was surprised to find himself, lying in his bed.

He couldn’t remember getting there. The last thing he remembered was the ringing of the bomb in his ears, the all-consuming heat and destruction trying to push through his defences.

Apparently he had made it back to his flat somehow. That was weird, because he couldn’t image his sore legs carrying him all the way. Maybe he had been in some kind of trance. He knew that could happen to people who were severely injured.

He pushed back the fluffy blanket and tried to sit up.

That was even weirder, because he was fairly certain he hadn’t possessed any kind of blanket before.

He rubbed the soft fabric between his fingers. It was light, woollen and pitch-black. Definitely not something he would have miracled up. He would always go for something in stylish tartan if possible, not something as plain as this. Maybe it had been the dizziness or perhaps…

He sat upright in bed. A sudden warmth has spread in his chest, as he recognised the faint, familiar scent of firewood and sulphur that hung in the air.

“Crowley?” he called into the empty flat.

There was no answer. Only the ticking of his gigantic clock and the dripping of some pipe.

The demon was gone.

A small smile settled on Aziraphale’s lips and he pressed the still warm blanket against his chest.

Maybe everything wasn’t lost after all.

**Author's Note:**

> The story is based on a real policeman by the name of Alfred Smith, who during the air raids on 13th June 1917 forced the workers of a factory back inside, rescuing the people from an exploding bomb, but losing his life in the process. ( [x](http://www.iancastlezeppelin.co.uk/13-jun-1917/4593903795) )  
> The attacks on the 13th June 1917 were the deadliest single raid on London during the First World War. It killed 162 people and 432 were injured, including 18 children in a primary school and 16 passengers of a train about to depart from Liverpool station.  
> Hauptmann Ernst Brandenburg, responsible for the so called Operation Türkenkreuz, was summoned to Berlin to be awarded the Pour le Mérite, Germany's highest military honour, but the engine of his plane failed, and they crashed. ( [x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/German_strategic_bombing_during_World_War_I#cite_ref-61) )
> 
> If you want to read some more about my stupid Good Omens ideas , feel free to visit me on my [tumblr](https://walkingcontradiction42.tumblr.com/) .
> 
> As always, Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. :)


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